


New Moon

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, BDSM, Canon Era, Collars, Gangbang, Humiliation, Kink Negotiation, Multi, Polyamory, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"What," Athos asks, pausing for a slug of his wine, "is the essence of this? Not the </i>reason<i>, but the… aim."</i></p><p><i>Aramis thinks, for a moment; imagines himself in that room, the colliding, encompassing whole of all the questions he's answered </i>yes<i> to.</i></p><p>
  <i>"Degradation."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo fill: gangbang.
> 
> Content notes: Brief mentions of a variety of kinks, including watersports, but none of them are dwelt on. Blasphemy.

It takes Porthos two weeks to find enough of them.

Athos, meanwhile, sits with him every night, one hand on the back of Aramis' chair the only sign that something's changed.

Athos had gone with Porthos, one evening, but came back again after an hour; and neither of them mention him going again. Aramis privately wonders if the sort of men they were looking for had caught a whiff of nobility and kept their distance. (He knows enough to know that when nobles are looking for men like that, it normally doesn't end well for the men.)

This has left Athos a near-permanent presence at his rooms – bringing his own wine, at least.

Drinking, and asking questions.

Questions, sometimes, which make Aramis think that half the shame inherent in what he wants is the way he has to first lay it bare for them, need by desire, fibre by sinew.

They both drink too much, and do not look at each other, sometimes for hours.

Aramis bites his nails to the quick.

He wonders who Athos has been talking to, or what exactly he doesn't know about the man; he's asked things which Aramis is astonished he's even heard of, voice dispassionate as a bureaucrat, determined that there should be no doubting what exactly won't and will be permitted.

Pen scratching on parchment, Athos' handwriting precise; and the fact he's taking fucking _notes_ somehow the worst thing of all.

When Athos asks if he's hard now, if _this_ makes him hard, Aramis' stomach lurches like he's falling and he can't, just _can't –_

– which of course is an answer in itself.

"What," Athos asks, pausing for a slug of his wine, "is the essence of this? Not the _reason_ , but the… aim."

Aramis thinks, for a moment; imagines himself in that room, the colliding, encompassing whole of all the questions he's answered _yes_ to.

"Degradation."

Athos' hand moves from the back of the chair to his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 _Penetration_  
_Slapping_  
_Spanking_  
_Ejaculation_  
_Pissing_  
_Throating_  
_Gagging_  
_Shaming_  
_Humiliation_  
_ Degradation, _underlined _._

 _Choking_ has been vetoed, unless it's one of them. That was Porthos, saying with a hitch in his voice that he wouldn't stand by while strangers put their hands to Aramis' throat.

At least half of Aramis wanted to call the whole thing off right there and then, but he didn't.

If he's going to plunder the dark heart of himself, there is nobody else he'd want standing by the door with one hand on their sword hilts.

_No breaking the skin._

_No weapons –_ for anyone else, that is.

_No kissing._

_Collared_ ; as every night for a week now, Athos holding out his upturned hands without preamble, wide strip of chocolate-brown leather laid across his palms. Waiting to see if Aramis would bow his head for them.

He only feels Athos' hands on him when the other man thinks he's asleep, fingers ghosting over the border of skin and leather.

_Is he imagining it?_

He imagines it himself, then, for the first time – naked, kneeling, blind; neck bared, a dozen strange hands on his body. The pressure of their token against his throat, keeping him tethered.

 

* * *

 

Every night Athos stretches him open a little further, slowly, methodically pushing his limits over and over until Aramis is sweating and crying _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ just hanging onto himself enough not to add _me_.

Nobody comes. Afterwards, he curls up into himself with his head in Athos' lap, Athos' hand on his shoulder; and it's the fourth day when he finally thinks _you stubborn bastard_ and moves that hand to his neck, determinedly holding it there until Athos stops trying to pull away and at last presses his callused fingers to the line of the leather.

 

* * *

 

He wonders if this time, he's finally fractured this beyond repair.

They are both still here, and they're doing more to prepare him than he is. But.

It's less than a week until the new moon.

 

* * *

 

They stop going home entirely after that, sleeping either side of him with their hands joined on the side of his neck.

Athos touches him everywhere, now, and has stopped asking permission.

The more he treats Aramis like a possession, the more Aramis finds he wants him to.

Porthos does not touch him like a lover; but neither does he tell either of them to stop.

They will be alright, then. Somehow.

 

* * *

 

When the night comes, they blindfold him just outside the door.

 

* * *

 

As Aramis starts to feel like he's losing himself, he prays.

 _Ave Maria,_ he mouths, _gratia plena, Dominus tecum,_ until a cock pushes between his lips and he continues in his mind _. Benedicta tu in mulieribus,_ low laughter, "Dirty slut," _et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus,_ fingers pushing roughly inside him, a hand in his hair pulling his head back _. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus,_ empty, empty, pushed to the floor, _nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae,_ filled, filled _–_

_Amen._

 

* * *

 

It passes in a blur of sensation.

 

* * *

 

When all the hands finally fall away, every nerve in his body is on a knife-edge of toleration.

He's been crying for a while, it seems, nose blocked and throat aching from tears and from being fucked. His leg muscles near-cramping, arsehole burning and cock aching, though he's come – twice, he thinks? – and many, many more times dry, until he started screaming.

He thinks he remembers screaming.

His ears are ringing. He smells like come and ammonia, and longs for some fresh air.

Nobody has touched his throat all evening.

He jumps, hisses in shock as a bucket of cold water is dumped over his head, thinks absurdly for a second, _what about the floorboards_ as one of the two of them _finally_ puts their hand on his throat, and the tears well up all over again as he's guided gently down to the floor.

He smells soap, feels the softness of cloth caressing his skin, as they wash all the traces of the other men from his body.

 _It's over_ , he realises then, noticing that for the first time in hours there are no other sounds in the room.

They roll him over onto his front, and he knows instinctively it's Porthos' hands on his chest, Athos' on his hips, the cloths stroking over every inch of him, and he should be cold but he's still burning, still singing like a beacon in the night.

They haven't touched him tonight – he would have known them – and he's so strung-out and raw that he panics the moment he thinks of it, reaching for each of their hands, opening his mouth to speak but only able to whimper at first, then finding his voice and saying _I, I, I…_

When Athos pulls him up on his knees again, presses his face to the wet floorboards and pushes inside him in one fluent movement, he's so tender and pain-pleasure-high that it's almost unbearable, his mouth opening in a silent wail, crushing Athos' fingers like a lifeline.

As Athos fucks him mercilessly, Porthos lays his head on top of Aramis', cheek to cheek, not letting go of his other hand; and Aramis understands even from this wordless place of sensation that Porthos doesn't want to touch him now, couldn't _stand_ to, but that it's alright.

That they will be alright.

Is Porthos crying? Or is it just him?

It's impossible to tell.

He doesn't even realise Athos has come until he's suddenly empty and they roll him onto his side, Athos stretching out along his back, Porthos shifting to lie against his front.

He holds their hands to his neck and their bodies tight against him, and the candles have all guttered out by the time he has words enough to thank them, and dawn has broken before he can let them go.

**Author's Note:**

> Background/further reading: I talk about _New Moon_ over at my [Tumblr](http://crabsandlobsters.tumblr.com/post/86536880198/okay-i-love-all-of-your-work-stuff-i-never-thought).


End file.
